


The Toll

by Zaniida



Series: Mature Readers Only [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Additional Content Warnings in End Note, Dark John, Desperation, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Extremely Dubious Consent, Intense, M/M, Self-Loathing, Serious Consent Issues, crying Finch, gets kinda dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-04-08 10:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14102943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: Follow-Up to "The Price" by tenaya.  She was heading for a positive sexual relationship (before she fell out of the fandom), but mine turns in a different direction.This is not a happy relationship.  Reese is kinda effed up -- and he knows it, but can't do much about it (low willpower, high neediness).  Finch is agreeing to a sexual relationship he does not want, in order to keep Reese as a partner for the work they do.  Emotions run high for both of them; this'll getintense.





	1. Obsession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisagarland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisagarland/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Price](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002244) by [tenaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenaya/pseuds/tenaya). 
  * Inspired by [But you're just troubled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/471852) by [livenudebigfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot). 
  * Inspired by [Another Path Travelled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342400) by [MnemonicMadness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness). 
  * Inspired by [Fealty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/659517) by [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat). 



> Back in October of 2013, tenaya released _The Price_ , the start of a series with the premise "What if Reese said he'd only join Finch if Finch had frequent sex with him?"
> 
> Which, y'know, that's totally a common fanfic trope ("just add sex!") and I have no beef with it; these scenarios are compelling and fun to read.
> 
> But then a certain detective got killed, and tenaya was partway through writing the third piece in the series, and kinda lost her muse. So in October of 2014, tenaya uploaded the last piece she would write in this series, and moved on to other fandoms.
> 
> This left the idea unfinished, and, as I keep coming back to it, at some point I asked her if it'd be okay for me to write a follow-up that went in a different direction (more on that in the end note). She agreed, and here we are.
> 
> And yes, this breaks my resolution to not open up more open series while I still have (at last count) eight or so [open series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1098849) (not even counting the specials!), but I have been having writer's block and flitting between projects so much lately that I figure I ought to at least post the one thing that did in fact get written during this time, a full chapter's worth. So here you go.
> 
> For more detail on just how dark this piece gets, see the end note.
> 
> And Lisa: Hope I pegged your interests right with this gift ^_^ It seems in line with some of your writing and some comments you've made on mine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This wasn’t the start to a healthy relationship. Nor to any kind of relationship worth having. I couldn’t delude myself into thinking that there was any chance of this becoming a long-term arrangement, let alone something close to romance, or love. And yet… I couldn’t let it go._

**Somewhat Modified/Rearranged Excerpt from “Rain Check” by tenaya:**

_As for their ‘terms of payment’ agreement, John regretted it now. He wondered why Finch had ever agreed to it, and feared it was because Finch had been desperate to secure John’s abilities._

_He actually liked Finch, found him admirable; felt a strong desire to protect him, and was undeniably fond of him. Finch's air of mystery was an irresistible lure. And John had enjoyed having sex with Finch, but was uneasy about its coercive overtones. It had started as a game, but now he felt like a brute, and that chafed at him._

_Well, that was that. As much as he now felt like pursuing a physical relationship for different reasons, there was no way he could, not after his past behavior. If he could somehow repair the damage to their trust, he vowed to concentrate on the numbers._

  


* * *

  


Finch never initiated. At some point, I had to acknowledge that.

My resolution had been short-lived: Not even three weeks after Benton’s murder, I’d had Finch again, pressed to a wall as I thrust against his leg with quiet desperation. The mistrust that had been stewing between us wasn’t entirely gone, but it had abated enough that, at the time, I didn’t feel like I was overstepping my bounds. And Finch didn’t protest; he’d even made a quick joke about having kept up on his hydration this time.

Even knowing that the relationship couldn’t last, I was finding that I _needed_ him. Like a drowning man needs air, I needed that connection, that reminder that I was still alive and still human -- that I had a role in this life as something more than just the agent of fear and lies, death and pain. Each time I brought Finch to his climax, it was indisputable evidence that I could create pleasure, too.

It took me a while to notice it, but Finch had begun making a concerted effort to anticipate and respond to my requests -- to be more available, to be more ready than he’d been when I’d first jumped him in the library. More than anything, he seemed determined to live up to his end of the bargain, and that was becoming increasingly evident.

Which might have been fine… if he had seemed to be truly enjoying it. He felt pleasure in the moment, of course, but that was merely biology. The encounters provided him with a flash of pleasure and a temporary flush of endorphins, smoothing away the edges of his chronic pain. If I could have persuaded myself that this brief respite was enough, then perhaps we could have continued indefinitely, and Finch would never have come to know how much I regretted our bargain.

But, despite the way his body responded to my touch -- despite how alluring he looked in the aftermath, how deeply I longed to take this to the next level, how often my eyes went to his lips and wished they were mine to claim -- I couldn’t deny that Finch wasn’t interested in me. I’d realized it the first time he sucked me off, kneeling on a thick cushion I’d brought for the occasion. When I spilled myself in his mouth, he tried to swallow, but ended up choking and gagging, spitting it out on the floor. As soon as he could speak, he apologized -- but as sick as he looked right then, I felt worse. He’d only swallowed because _I_ had swallowed, that first time. Mostly just to play with his head. He thought that was part of the appeal for me, and was doing everything he could to meet my desires.

_I can show you what I like._

After that realization, I never asked for another blowjob. Nor did I try for intercourse; that felt like a line that I definitely wouldn’t be able to draw back from. If I had him -- if I took him -- I was never going to let him go. And even if I had been strong enough to back away, if I had taken that much before breaking it off, would he even be able to look me in the eye? The fragile trust between us hung like an icicle, ever ready to break off and shatter when it hit the ground.

So we stuck to basics. And each time it was over, he’d leave as quickly as he could pull himself together, staggering off to get back to work. Now and again, as he was buttoning himself up, I’d notice that his usually steady hands were trembling. Or I’d catch a glimpse of his expression, and he always looked a little more lost than the last time.

This wasn’t the start to a healthy relationship. Nor to any kind of relationship worth having. I couldn’t delude myself into thinking that there was any chance of this becoming a long-term arrangement, let alone something close to romance, or love. And yet… I couldn’t let it go.

Had I been a better sort of man, I would have stuck to my resolution and stopped asking him, just let our arrangement quietly die. No: If I had been a better sort of man, it would never have gotten this far; I would never have proposed such a thing in the first place, let alone carried through with the idea. At the time, I’d thought it more than half likely that he was just yanking my chain, and I’d been determined to strike back at him for daring to bring Jessica’s memory into the exchange. But how could I reconcile the notion of vengeance with the fact that I bullied a desperate man into accepting a blowjob? It hadn’t been rape, but it sure as hell hadn’t been freely given, either. A good man would never have used sex as a bargaining chip; an honorable man would have paid more attention to the coercion, and stopped before it got that far.

If I had ever been that kind of man, the CIA’s claws had torn it out of me years ago.

With each session, I felt a little worse; each act weighed heavy in my stomach for hours afterward. As much as I drove myself to bring Finch pleasure, I knew that I was only driving him away.

I was losing him -- the man who’d become my lifeline -- and I didn’t know what to do.

Sometimes, I thought of throwing myself on his mercy, explaining what had been in my head at the time I’d made the deal… trying, in some fashion, to convey just how messed up I’d been to even consider this an acceptable exchange. But, with every encounter, I just dug the hole a few inches deeper. What would he think of me, knowing that I hadn’t negotiated in good faith? What would he think, knowing that even after realizing this about myself, I’d still pushed him into sex -- not once, or twice, but dozens of times as the months wore on? That even though, mentally, I valued his rights over my own comfort, I was too much of a coward to act like it?

I had to break it off. But that was something I couldn’t bring myself to do… and I hated myself more each time I gave in.

 

While compiling information about Virtanen Pharmaceuticals, Finch had expressed to me that the thought of getting some manner of justice for those he’d been unable to save was an ineffable treasure. As he’d struggled to find the words, I had almost been able to _feel_ his frustration over the loss of innocent life.

So it was an painful irony that I returned to the library with blood on my hands. Yes, we’d won, and Zoe was safe, the villains declawed, Dana Miller’s untimely death avenged -- but I’d taken a life.

Never mind that the man had been trying to kill me; that was nothing unusual, and no excuse. By the time I pressed that needle into his flesh, I had been fully in control of the encounter. I’d had many options for dealing with him, but I’d chosen my course, and what came pouring out of me was the spirit of vengeance -- or perhaps the Western view of karmic retribution, when he died by the same poison he’d tried to use on me.

Once upon a time, that might have made me feel powerful, or righteous. But that night, as I rushed off after Zoe, it only made my stomach queasy. I’d killed a man, and had the same sort of reaction that I might’ve had to a mild case of food poisoning. On an emotional level, I didn’t feel good, or bad; I didn’t feel much of anything. A man was dead, and it was a fact about the world that I barely filed away somewhere deep within my brain. Almost as if I’d had nothing to do with it.

That scared me, in a way I hadn’t been scared in a long, long time. Having seen Zoe safely back to her life, I’d retreated to the library, like a child running home to Mommy. Only I wasn’t afraid of the dark; I was afraid of the darkness within.

I found Finch taking down the photos, the elements of the case. He seemed lighter on his feet than usual, as if some great weight had, if only briefly, been lifted off his shoulders. Having faced down the head of Virtanen and found some justice for an old case, he was in the highest spirits I’d ever seen him in -- practically buoyant.

And I stole that joy from him. And despised myself even before I started.

Once again, I needed that reminder -- that I was something more than the angel of death -- and so, when he heard my steps and turned to me, eyes shining and crinkled around the edges, I didn’t even hesitate.

“Almost got killed today,” I said, mildly, which brought his grin down to merely a tentative smile. He hadn’t heard the exchange, of course; we’d been out of contact at the time.

Possibly noting the cut on my lip, he looked me over, his brows drawing together. “Are you all right?”

“Just feeling a little… wound up,” I said, catching the exact moment when he picked up on my meaning, when resignation settled over him like a heavy cloak.

“Ah… y-yes, of course,” he said, making no mention of the fact that we’d had sex four times in the past three days; I’d bargained for frequent sex, whenever and however I wanted it, and the only time he’d ever balked at the details was after I’d killed Benton.

Would he balk again, now, if he knew that I’d just killed someone else? But this time, it hadn’t been premeditated. Only it _had_ been; I’d known before getting up from the chair that my captor was not going to leave the room alive. How would Finch judge me, if he understood the details of that encounter? Would he grant me leeway because I’d been threatened directly? Would it matter that I couldn’t spare the time to properly restrain the man, because I had to catch up with Zoe? I’d had handcuffs; that wouldn’t have taken thirty seconds. Were there any details that might have justified my decision?

Whatever the case, I didn’t mention it to him. I wasn’t going to risk his reaction. And that weakness, putting my fears ahead of his right to know, to choose… that was yet another reminder of the great gulf fixed between me and anything like a ‘good man.’

While I was unbuttoning his pants, he carded his fingers through my hair, almost fondly. “You did good today, John,” he said. “I… I wanted to thank you.”

The quaver in his voice made me think that maybe his eyes were full of tears, but I didn’t look up. I didn’t know -- I didn’t _want_ to know -- if it was due to his emotions over the case, or because of what I was about to do to him. Part of me wondered if he’d heard my final exchange with Zoe, if he’d hoped that maybe I’d find some way to connect with her so I could leave him alone. But after Jessica, I didn’t have it in me to replace her with another woman; there was only Finch, and even that was not so much about the sex as about a man stumbling through a pitch-black swamp, desperately following after a quiet voice in the darkness.

I wasn’t the least bit hard while I sucked him off. It felt more like penance -- only the kind of twisted penance that makes your debt worse, instead of better. Afterward, before the taste was even out of my mouth, I left him there to recover, and fled. Took a run through the park, as if the pounding of my feet could part me from the self-loathing welling up within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:** John’s internal world is dark and somewhat intense, and the encounters between our two leads are highly questionable. While it’s possible to [consent to something you don’t actually want](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11866476), in this case Harold feels that he does not have any other choice (if he wants John to stick around and work the cases), which makes the setup highly coercive. Harold is basically sacrificing himself in service to the numbers, which is wholly in character for him. John is hurting Harold and becomes aware of that, but continues his behavior anyway (while hating himself for doing so).
> 
> Depending on your opinion about coercive setups, and where this falls in terms of coercion, you might find this leaning more on Non-Con/Rape than merely Dubious Consent. In my opinion, the distinction here rests on two key points:
> 
> 1\. **John has not created the context wherein Harold is coerced.** John isn’t the one threatening these people.
> 
> 2\. **John should be free to walk away without guilt.** Yes, John is the only one who could save these people, but it’s not his responsibility to do so. Harold has skin in the game, but John doesn’t unless he _chooses_ to.
> 
> In the pilot episode, Harold manipulated John to the best of his ability, doing whatever it took to get John to take that first case. He had good reasoning: John was en route to suicide (and the job could save his life… temporarily), and people would die without John’s help, and he had every expectation that John would agree once he understood the truth.
> 
> Does this excuse kidnapping, deception, psychological manipulation, even an appeal to John’s unsettled emotions over Jessica’s death? Harold did his best to maneuver John into accepting a dangerous (likely lethal) job, one that would tax his abilities to the limit with hardly any letup, and one that John was initially not inclined to consider. Do the lives at stake justify Harold’s actions?
> 
> In tenaya’s modified version, Harold’s manipulation is countered by John’s manipulation. Where Harold wants John to sacrifice his life in service to this mission, John asks Harold to sacrifice his purity, his sexual autonomy. Harold weighs his own desires against the lives he’s trying to save, and accepts the bargain. John makes a similar assessment: He’ll accept the job even though it’ll likely get him killed.
> 
> This is where it’s interesting to ask: Why do we see sexual consent as a different creature from the other consents here? Why does it feel different to ask John to sacrifice his life (risking death, and giving up the freedom to do other things with the time he has left because “the numbers never stop coming”) compared to asking Harold to sacrifice his sexual desires (“I don’t want to have sex with you”)? This is an area that fics like this explore.
> 
> * * * * *
> 
> I would have loved to have seen how tenaya’s version went; when you start with a coercive relationship, it’s so difficult to show a believable progression to a consensual one, so authors who can pull that off are tops in my book. But while tenaya’s original series was meant to bring them to a happy consensual sexual relationship, don’t expect that from my fic. I don’t write romance (well, barring some level of Omegaverse, so far), and I don’t write onscreen consensual sexual encounters; that’s simply not my focus. The fandom has enough Rinch; I provide interesting alternatives and Platonic friendships and thought experiments and such.
> 
> However, just like elbows running around like a little M-O bot, cleaning up the pain and damage and [making happy endings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13351779), I feel like I can take this coercive initial setup and turn it into a positive friendship by the end. But the essence of drama is in **contrast** , and I feel like I need to explore how dark it got and why that was a bad thing, before I can show them repairing their relationship and moving into a better connection that is good for both of them and not at the expense of either of them.
> 
> So that's where this is going: Platonic friendship without any sexuality. And doing some open-heart surgery on these poor guys’ emotional trauma, so they can come together in a much better place than they are now.


	2. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m… back here, Mr. Reese. If you would kindly leave your shoes by the door.” I didn’t miss the catch in his voice. My instincts were keyed up: Something was weird here. Even as I pulled my shoes off, I still didn’t have a clue why he’d summoned me._
> 
> _Following his voice, I strolled down the hall and through the only open door: the master bedroom. Finch was standing by the bed; as I entered, he tried to smile, but there was so much tension and uncertainty bleeding off him that he couldn’t really manage it._
> 
> _“What’s going on here, Finch?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally one long chapter, but I ended up splitting it in two; otherwise it'd be way out of keeping with the word count from the previous chapter.
> 
> The night I wrote this was great. Couldn't stop putting words down. I attribute this to the Social Media Fast I'm just started that day (no Facebook or Twitter this week), and I'm thinking to do a similar fast as the first week of each month; seems like it'll positively affect my productivity.
> 
> The italicized flashbacks (whoops, that's the second half of the chapter, not quite yet) are pretty much all from tenaya's original. I've wrapped John's mindset around things that actually got said, and what he remembers feeling from that initial meeting.
> 
> For chapter-specific content warnings, see end note.

It all came to a head after Burton turned out to be Elias.

Kneeling there on the ferry, tied to the railing as he disappeared onto the docks, I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me -- followed almost instantly by bitterness. We’d been duped -- and not just by the crime lord himself, but by Finch’s supposedly all-seeing Machine.

The betrayal cut deep, because, somewhere along the line, I’d started to trust it. Because the Machine wasn’t human, I knew that it wouldn’t point me at innocent people out of some personal agenda -- and that was more than I’d ever had with the Agency. I’d rushed into a tough situation with full assurance that I was saving the right man, and let that man get the jump on me… because I’d been foolish enough to trust the intel.

Except… no. The Machine had given us the correct intel, pointed us at the center of the problem, and left the analysis in human hands. And Elias _had_ been in danger. But all the previous cases had involved a victim and a murderer; I’d never stopped to consider that one man could be _both_.

So the problem wasn’t with the Machine. It was simply a tool, unthinking, handing over the information it had sorted; the fault, as always, lay with me.

As I worked my way out of my bonds, I mulled over my own actions. When had I stopped second-guessing the Machine? I hadn’t ever been this trusting with the Agency. In fact, I’d stayed alive precisely _because_ I didn’t take things for granted, not even the assignments or the intel; others could have picked up on the traitors, but I was the only one to notice scapegoats like Casey. I’d learned to keep my mouth shut, of course, and rarely had the chance to intervene, but even Kara’s assertion -- _This is right_ \-- couldn’t blind me to the facts.

If I’d been that alert with Elias, maybe I would’ve noticed that he wasn’t what he seemed. I’d screwed up -- taken the case at face value -- and, because of my failure, because I hadn’t stopped to be just a _little_ skeptical… Elias was free.

We’d had the intel. As much as we were going to get -- more than I had ever had. And I’d still made the wrong call. The latest reminder that I couldn’t trust even my own instincts.

How often was this going to happen, going forward? How much could we trust the Machine to steer us in the right direction? How much would I need to course-correct in the middle of a case, or possibly even before the case had truly begun?

For the second time since joining Finch’s crusade, I felt utterly unmoored -- and this time it wasn’t about Finch, but about _myself_.

 

Striding up the docks, I spotted Finch through the fences, tending to a wounded Fusco. Finch looked up and saw me, a quick relief flashing across his face before the two of them headed my way.

After pointing Fusco at the Russian, I stalked off toward the city, not even sure what I was going to do. Finch kept pace with me, but I was finding myself hard-pressed not to just stride ahead, fast enough that he couldn’t follow. I wanted distance -- from the situation, from my emotions, from the implications of this case and what it meant for our future.

“You couldn’t have known about… ‘Charlie,’” Finch said, perhaps trying to reassure himself as much as me. “The Machine found a man who was targeted for death; we just didn’t know that he was also a killer.”

“It’s my fault he’s out there, Finch,” I rejoined, speeding up. He had to stretch a little to keep up, and I knew it was causing him pain and part of me didn’t even care.

“It’s not yours alone,” Finch countered, then startled back when I wheeled on him.

“We just saved a man whose only goal in life is revenge,” I said. “He spent years studying his enemies through their own _children_.” The war that was coming was one I didn’t want to think about, but couldn’t get out of my head. And we’d helped unleash it.

For a moment, Finch glanced away. But when he looked back, I saw in his face not a hint of the horror or guilt that railed at me from within. “John, we have limited information,” he said. “We knew when we began this that we might make… mistakes.” Briefly, he scanned our surroundings -- one of his personal tics, a way to ensure that his secrets weren’t being overheard. “But we have to go now. We have more people to help -- more numbers.”

Another case, already? Or did he mean it more generally, that we needed to be prepared for the next case, to not let this one failure derail the whole mission? The rage inside me roiled, barely contained. “And how many of those numbers will come up because we saved one man’s life?”

The parallels were obvious. If I hadn’t intervened, Elias would’ve been killed; if Finch hadn’t intervened, I’d be on the bottom of the river. And maybe that’s where I belonged. In saving my life, hadn’t Finch done exactly what I’d just done -- rescue a monster more likely to harm the world than help it?

And he had to _know_ that. Maybe I could hide my true nature from other people, but not from him. Before reaching out to me, he’d studied me, and since then, he’d seen me in… not my darkest moments, but moments that were dark enough. Finch had to be aware that the creature on the end of his leash could turn on him at any time, and he’d be utterly defenseless.

No. The beast had _already_ turned on him, countless times. And I would go on pressing my luck until either Finch cut me loose or I hurt him far, far worse than I already had.

I couldn’t stay there -- couldn’t stay with _him_. With this much rage bottled up inside me, it wouldn’t take much for it to come pouring out. And I didn’t want him around when it did.

With Finch’s pleas ringing in my ears, I strode off across the street and into the crowd.

* * * *

* * *

* * * *

Halfway through my third shot of whiskey, my phone buzzed. A flash of irritation ran through me: Was Finch keeping up on my drinking habits, now? Did he think I was going to drop right back into an alcoholic haze, lose every ounce of sobriety I had gained in the months we’d been together?

I ordered a fourth before glancing at the message. It was from Finch, but it wasn’t a scolding or a question or a plea. Simply an address… one I didn’t recognize. Upper East Side, just inside Yorkville.

As I picked up the next shot, a second message followed: _Please take a cab_.

If I’d been concerned about getting out of control with Finch earlier, I certainly wasn’t more trustworthy now that I was riding the edge of a buzz. But the knowledge that Finch wanted me… only, _why_ did he want me? Was he trying to pull me into the latest case? Or trying to nanny me, get me away from the allure of alcohol, maybe feed me a good meal and put me to bed? My lip curled with disgust at the thought, of Finch thinking that I needed a caregiver like that.

I needed a handler. That wasn’t the same thing. I needed…

I needed to not ruin this between me and Finch. I’d ruined everything else in my life, but this was one thing I couldn’t afford to lose.

After too long staring at that final shot, I shoved it away, tossed some money on the counter, and left. Whatever Finch wanted me for, it wasn’t like I had it in me to stay away.

 

En route, I mused over whether this was just the first step in the next case… but then, he hadn’t said “We have a new number”; he’d just said _come_. It could be a restaurant, but the area was residential… just a few blocks from the Met, and surrounded by any number of other museums.

No, I was almost positive that he was introducing me to one of his safe houses.

Using the map on my phone, I directed the taxi driver right past the place, getting a good look at the building without seeming to care. Apartment complex; restaurant on the ground floor. A few blocks later, I got out, paid my fare, and casually doubled back on foot.

Stopped at a bodega long enough to pick up a box of saltines, a banana, and a bottle of water; once outside, I ate quickly, hoping it’d counteract the alcohol a bit. If Finch was inviting me for dinner, this wouldn’t be enough to interfere, but I really doubted that this was the case, and I couldn't see any situation where sobriety wouldn't be an asset.

Dropped the remnants in the trash and was about to add most of the box of crackers when I noticed a homeless guy, and handed it to him instead.

As I closed in on Finch’s location, I ducked into a few shops, though I doubted anyone was actually following me. Except Finch, of course. I couldn’t help but pick out the cameras, and wondered if he was watching. Waiting.

And then, finally… I was there.

Dwarfed by some of the nearby buildings -- giant boxes clearly built in the early 1900’s, before the zoning code -- sat an unassuming apartment complex. Not the sort of place you’d expect a billionaire to be living in, even temporarily… but, of course, that impression would be valuable for a billionaire’s safe house.

As I casually appraised the building and its surroundings, my phone buzzed. _803_. Roughly halfway up the building, if that was an apartment number; I tried to spot Finch at a window, but, of course, he wouldn’t be that careless. It did squash the idea of dinner, though… unless he’d ordered in. Or… was Finch about to show me that he could cook? Doubtful; a man with his drive and his resources wouldn’t waste time creating a mediocre version of what others could craft faster, easier, and with greater pleasure for the senses. And Finch was a man who liked his high-class sensory pleasures.

Now, how to approach?

I could sneak in through the service entrance, try to avoid the cameras… but that was more likely to draw attention than the straightforward approach, so I just headed in through the lobby, as if I belonged there, and found the elevators. Up to the eighth floor, and then I stepped out into a quiet hallway, just as unassuming as the building itself. Lightly decorated. Nobody in sight. Plenty of doors.

After noting the door I’d been directed to, I made sure of my exits -- a stairwell on either side of the hall -- and the cameras. Two types of cameras: the pair of obvious ones that covered the hallway, not out of keeping with the likely budget for this place, and the half-dozen well hidden spy cams that kept track of all the doors, including 803. Definitely not in keeping with this place.

Since it was clear that Finch was watching, I didn’t bother with a knock. As the door swung in, I noted that it felt heavier than expected. Bulletproof, and likely made to withstand a few other types of attack as well. Good hinges, to bear the weight without warping. Inside were four mechanical locks plus an electronic one -- and, set into the wall, a monitor that showed the hallway just outside.

I didn’t imagine that the rest of the apartment complex had this kind of security. Which meant that Finch had paid a lot of money to upgrade this specific room. More than just the door -- I was certain of that -- and the door alone was hardly a one-man job, much less the one-man job of an aging hacker with back problems. No, this kind of work would’ve taken contractors and supplies, and the approval of management.

So Finch owned the building -- or, well, one of his personas did. And, given how paranoid Finch could get, it wasn’t a leap to imagine that he’d arranged for the manager and staff to get changed out after (or during) construction, so that nobody who worked there now was aware of just how secure room 803 had become.

The perfect shelter, hidden in the heart of an unassuming apartment complex, disguised by far more interesting buildings on every side. The corners of my lips twitched up in appreciation.

When I shut the door, the sound of the city wasn’t muffled, like in any other apartment -- it was cut off entirely. The only sounds came from inside: the slight hum of airflow, and occasional hints of someone moving around in a room down the hall. With this level of soundproofing, you could probably murder someone in here without the neighbors losing sleep. Was this simply to ensure that no one could eavesdrop on us as we discussed the Machine -- or some of Finch’s _deeper_ secrets?

Briefly, I debated about the locks. My training always sought a way out, and it seemed doubtful that there was a second exit here, certainly not one I could spot in a hurry. The thought flitted across my mind that this could be a trap, could be Finch’s way of disposing of me, but the thought held no traction. I’d just helped him put down a major case; if I had to guess, that relief was as addicting to him as he was to me. And even if he had found reason to put me down, there were easier ways to do that. Ways that didn’t put Finch in the line of fire in case they went wrong.

The suit hanging on a rack near the door, the scent of his cologne in the air, shoes carefully tucked in by the front wall, that could have all been for show -- but I knew his gait by now, and that was definitely the man himself, moving around haltingly in one of the back rooms.

So if there was a threat here, it was far more likely to come from outside than from Finch. I studied the locks, and carefully engaged them all.

With safety out of the way, I could pause to admire the details. A decided green theme to the decor, not too bright or overpowering, set against cream carpet and mahogany paneling; all the furniture matched the paneling. Given the finer details, I had no doubt that this was distinct from any other apartment in the building: confirmation of Finch’s ownership.

There was no television, of course. Why waste time on the evening news when the key details of current affairs get picked up by your algorithms, days or even months before they finally get pasteurized for a broad audience? And, while Finch did, on occasion, take in a movie, he spent most of his meager free time enjoying the written word.

So the bookcase was hardly a surprise… except for its modest size, nestled into a corner by one of the sofas. They were full-length sofas, of generous dimensions, the kind that I could fully stretch out on if I needed a place to crash. I ran my hand along the top of one, smiling at the feel of suede under my fingertips. No -- subtly different from suede. Soft, and cool, and velvety. A luxury purchase probably right up there with Finch’s best suits.

Between the living room and the kitchen there was no barrier, just a shift from carpet to wood flooring, another subtle touch of extravagance; the other apartments probably went with vinyl, something cheap and hard to damage, easy to clean. The kitchen itself was quite tidy, like everything else I could see. On the stove sat a teapot; on the counter, a coffee maker. I’d never seen Finch drink coffee, so that touch was for me.

Was this a new base of operations?

As I was considering the possibilities, Finch finally spoke up: “I’m… back here, Mr. Reese. If you would kindly leave your shoes by the door.” I didn’t miss the catch in his voice. My instincts were keyed up: Something was weird here. Even as I pulled my shoes off, I still didn’t have a clue why he’d summoned me.

Following his voice, I strolled down the hall and through the only open door: the master bedroom. Finch was standing by the bed; as I entered, he tried to smile, but there was so much tension and uncertainty bleeding off him that he couldn’t really manage it.

“What’s going on here, Finch?”

Deflating, he looked down and away. “Mr. Reese, I… I know that the last case didn’t turn out… quite how we had hoped. And it can get… disheartening, to have things go that wrong. But… I-I hope you’ll… I hope that you’ll be able to see that the good we do outweighs… everything else. Our mistakes and… and the times we just don’t know--”

“You pulled me out of a bar to give me a pep talk?”

He swallowed. “No. Not-- I-I mean…” He tried to smile again, but it couldn’t stick, so he turned away, taking a deep breath.

“What is this place? This our new safe house?” Making a move like this after a bad case was reasonable, but Elias hadn’t gotten anywhere near our base of operations; there was no security risk that would have forced us to abandon the library.

“In a manner of speaking,” he said. “I, ah, set this up a couple of weeks ago, in anticipation of… well… that you might, ah, that _we_ might want a place where… f-for greater… privacy.” He took in another deep breath. “I’ve got everything we need, here. Not that I’m averse to doing it elsewhere,” he added hastily, “but perhaps with a little more, well, advance notice, we could manage to… that is, we’d have more room for…”

“Wait.” I held up a hand, reflexively, even though he couldn’t see it. “Did you set up a safe house just for us to have sex?”

With his back to me, I couldn’t tell if he was blushing, though I suspected it from the fluster in his voice. “Yes, well, I, ah, I just thought that… that this might be better than what we’ve been… doing,” he concluded weakly. “At any rate, we’re here, and we don’t have a case right now, and I know you’ve been feeling… poorly, due to the last case, so I thought I might… help you feel a bit… better?”

The thought of Finch having specifically set up a place for us… the idea that he’d planned this out to give me pleasure, release, relief… it should’ve felt good, should’ve roused my interest immediately, but there were too many confusing and contradictory details here for me to really hook into that idea. When he turned back to me, his smile a little more sure, I followed his bidding dubiously, walking across the plush carpet to sit on the edge of the bed.

The carpet had some extra give, like a foam layer underneath; even so, Finch laid a pillow between my feet before he sank down, somewhat gingerly, putting his head right at the level of my fly. The dark green comforter was soft in my grip as I watched Finch start to undo my pants.

Finch _choosing_ to be on his knees before me, pulling me loose with his own hands, _that_ got me hard -- right up until I flashed back to the last time he’d blown me, to the way he’d choked and the guilt I’d felt--

“Wait!” I said, just as he was leaning in, and he startled, looking up at me with wide eyes. “You-- you don’t have to swallow,” I said, and licked my lips. “It’s not-- it’s okay if you spit it out.”

He let out a relieved breath, and then his smile was real, just for a moment. “Whatever makes it good for you,” he said, and leaned forward again, delicately sucking my tip into the warmth of his mouth. I leaned back on my arms, enjoying the sensation, the knowledge that somehow we’d passed a threshold. That Finch was finally taking initiative in our relationship, such as it was. That maybe I hadn’t screwed it up as badly as I had thought.

 _That_ thought lasted for less than a minute -- for about as long as I could imagine that I wasn’t a screw-up. Even before walking through the front door, I’d felt that something was off here, something was wrong -- I just hadn’t worked out what I was picking up on. Of course I’d gone for the physical threats first, but, by now, it was obvious that my instincts weren’t cluing in to something physical. But for all the effort that Finch was putting into making me feel good, for all that I was panting already, achingly hard beneath his lips, his tongue… I couldn’t let it alone.

“Why-- why are you doing this?” I gasped out, fighting to stay in control; he hummed lightly, drawing out another gasp from me, but he didn’t pause to answer.

It seemed impossible that he had actually adjusted to the pleasure of sex with me; I wasn’t ready to take that for granted. Which meant that he was doing this to please me, or… to manipulate me. Not because he wanted to, but… he was _sacrificing himself for the cause_ again, there it was, the obvious answer. No wonder he’d looked so ill at ease. And I was sick enough to want it -- and yet not sick enough to let it continue. Which was something, at least.

I pushed him away, off of me -- “ _Stop!_ ” Brows drawn, he looked up again, wincing -- I’d hurt him, with the pressure on his shoulders. “Why?” I asked, harshly. “Why this? Why now?”

He licked his lips -- they were wet and a bit swollen, and, for once, I found that not alluring, but repulsive. And they trembled when he opened his mouth to speak; I looked away. “Am I doing it wrong?” he asked, his voice a bit rough. “I-I thought--”

“Why did you bring me here?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then: “Mr. Reese -- John -- if you’ll just tell me what you want--”

“I want to know what the hell is going on!” My head was buzzing, my ears ringing, and it wasn’t the alcohol. “You’re -- you’re not--”

His hands rested on my knees, gently, like a plea. “If this isn’t enough, John… I-I do have, that is, I bought some supplies. I wasn’t sure what you’d want, I had to do a little research, make some guesses, but I hope they’ll do for -- for tonight.”

I met his eyes again, searching. “What?”

Using my knees for stability, he struggled to his feet, and then limped over to the dresser, opened the top drawer, pulled out some items. “Lubrication… and, and I took it upon myself to get a set of… p-plugs, in case you wanted to…” Again, he looked away, but then straightened and faced me squarely, nothing but resolve. “If you wanted to, to fuck me--” He didn’t stammer on the word _fuck_ , though his eyes flinched a little; I had to wonder if he’d practiced saying it, a word so out of character for what I knew of him. “I’m here for whatever you want, John. Just--”

This wasn’t just about me; it couldn’t be just that. “What about what _you_ want?”

He looked astonished. “Why should that matter? This was never about what I want.”

“Then what do you even get out of this?”

“I get _you_ , Mr. Reese. Your help with the cases. You’ve made it clear--”

“All right, that’s it.” I jerked to my feet. “We’re not doing this,” I ground out, viciously tucking myself away, ignoring the spit and the fact that I was still mostly hard. “It’s over. The deal’s off.”

“What?” he gasped as I buttoned myself up, but I just turned and strode out of the bedroom, down the hall. “Mr. Reese, _please!_ ” Finch cried out after me, and I winced at the horror in his voice, the desperation. _I_ had caused this. If there was any chance of recovery, this had to stop _now_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** Angst. _So much angst._
> 
> Self-doubt, self-blame, self-loathing. Loss of self-control (and fear of hurting someone without wanting to).
> 
> Alcoholism (mentioned). Addiction (not to drugs or alcohol), or maybe co-dependency hits closer at this topic. Relationship problems… though, honestly, they can't keep going on like this. Something's gonna break.
> 
> DubCon blow job. Kinda on both sides, really.


	3. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I can’t speak to your true motives at the time, but I have done everything in my power, everything I could see to do, to meet your demand as readily and as willingly as I can manage.” His voice was stronger, now, but still trembling. “If I have… failed in some way, if I have not lived up to my end of the bargain, then it is not for want of trying. Whatever you want from me… please, help me understand how to do it right. Anything at all -- you know that. Whatever it is that you need.”_
> 
> _Waves of shame coursed through me anew. I was the one at fault here, and he was taking that blame upon himself, convinced that he’d failed **me**. Even now, he couldn’t see me for the monster that I was, and that blindness was eating away at the heart of me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just keeps growing and getting chopped into pieces. I swear. The chapter I'd written close to done (intending to post as a whole) was darn near as long as this entire fic so far, so this is just one chunk of it, where it seemed reasonable to divide it.
> 
> The italicized flashbacks are pretty much all from tenaya's original. I've wrapped John's mindset around things that actually got said, and what he remembers feeling from that initial meeting.

I wasn’t quite to the door before he caught up with me -- and there was pain in his breath, so I knew he’d had to push himself to get here that fast.

“Don’t go,” he begged from behind me, voice trembling. “Please don’t-- anything, anything you want… anything I can do, it’s yours -- I-I don’t even care what it is, just--”

“Did I ask for a whore?” I rejoined, not looking to see how the word choice affected him. “I don’t want it like this. I _never_ wanted _this!_ ”

“I don’t understand--”

“What did I ask for, Finch? Why did I even ask for it?”

Was I even asking Finch -- or simply demanding answers from myself? My mind flashed back to the hotel room, a moment before Finch, at my demand, had limped over to the bed he’d originally tied me to:

_You know you can still change your mind. And even if you don’t, you have the right to say no at any time. The trust will need to go both ways_.

And then, moments later:

_This is about trust, therefore it needs to be consensual. You have the right to say no_.

_But if I do, you won’t work for me. You made that plain_.

_That’s where the trust comes in_.

Because I’d been so damnably convinced that he was lying to me. _Playing_ me, like everyone else. And I’d been determined to play him right back.

_No amount of money will prove to me that your intentions aren’t that of a bored little man seeking power over others. The payment needs to personally cost you something_.

If Finch had ever owed me anything, he’d paid it, a dozen times over. Hell, he’d paid it back when he’d put himself into a likely hostage situation, a potential firefight, just to ensure that I wasn’t caught off guard by the double-cross; that was far more than Mark or Kara had ever risked on my account. Finch’s presence in the evidence lockup had caught me off guard, but I’d already lost any doubts I’d had about his integrity, back when he’d risked his life for Theresa’s -- stayed at her side even with a gunman closing in.

So there was no excuse for my continuing to hound him… except that he’d agreed to it, so I technically had the right, and I’d still wanted the connection. He’d called me out on it, and I’d sidestepped right past the objection without even answering, turning a question of my own motives into a question of _his_ :

_I had hoped that I had proven my sincerity to you and that you would no longer require… alternate forms of payment_.

_Are you reneging on our contract?_

_…No_.

Because he’d never made me answer for my actions; Finch would acquiesce to whatever I asked of him, at least back then, before I’d spooked him over the way I’d dealt with Benton. Back when he still felt that I was, at heart, a good man, when he hadn’t had any reason to doubt it, even as I was pushing him into sex that he didn’t want.

_It’s time for me to collect my first payment_.

Aside from that first attempt to derail my intentions, he hadn’t even hesitated before starting to disrobe. However reluctant he might be, however bizarre the arrangement, Finch honored his commitments. And, even from the start, he’d been determined to do whatever it took to ensure that the numbers got saved. The cost to him was irrelevant.

_I did agree to your terms, Mr. Reese. I am prepared to do whatever is necessary_.

I’d bridled at the thought that Finch was manipulating me, but, that first day, I hadn’t stopped to think that he might have good reason to do so. Because he hadn’t been toying with me; that wasn’t his way. He’d been trying to save my life. In a manipulative way, yes, but for a cause. Manipulative out of desperation, not for himself but for the benefit of innocent people -- and he somehow counted me among them. Wasn’t willing to entertain the thought of any future in which John Reese had checked himself out of life.

So this was the truth that I hadn’t understood: Yes, Finch was deceitful, and he used secret information to influence the actions of those around him… but not for his own pleasure or amusement or gain. He sought the good of all involved, sought to arrange the situation to achieve that good. If his reaction to Benton’s death was anything to go by, his equations didn’t even leave out the aggressors. In fact, the only person Finch didn’t seem to care about was… himself. The numbers were all that mattered, and he did everything in his power to secure their safety -- even if it cost him everything.

_What do you have in mind, Mr. Reese?_

What the hell _did_ I have in mind?

I leaned one forearm against the front wall and folded in against it, emotions coursing through me faster than I could deal with, all of them aimed at me, _condemning_ me. Frustration, disgust, _rage_. Horror. Fear that I might hurt Finch worse, might go on doing wrong by him, find myself too weak to separate from him, _again_ ; contempt at that failing in myself that had pulled me back the first time.

Of all the people I’d hurt in my life, only Jessica was a more innocent figure than Finch. And at least I had _tried_ to do good by her. Maybe I’d been wrong about what she needed, but I’d still been strong enough -- honorable enough -- to put her needs ahead of my own. Somewhere between then and now, between Jessica and Finch, I’d lost that ability… yet it was precisely what I needed right now. I had to find it within myself to stop this -- for good.

“You asked for trust,” Finch faltered -- so softly that I almost thought I’d imagined it. “You asked for me to, to trust you with my… sexuality. You said that you _couldn’t_ trust me unless I offered something more personal than money. Mr. Reese, I… I can’t speak to your true motives at the time, but I have done everything in my power, everything I could see to do, to meet your demand as readily and as willingly as I can manage.” His voice was stronger, now, but still trembling. “If I have… f-failed in some way, if I have not lived up to my end of the bargain, then it is not for want of trying. Whatever you want from me… please, help me understand how to do it right. Anything at all -- you _know_ that. Whatever it is that you need.”

Waves of shame coursed through me anew. I was the one at fault here, and he was taking that blame upon himself, convinced that he’d failed _me_. Even now, he couldn’t see me for the monster that I was, and that blindness was eating away at the heart of me.

“Damn it, Finch,” I blurted, unable to keep the bitterness inside. “I don’t _need_ this. I don’t deserve it. Can’t you see that?”

For a moment, the silence hung in the air. Then halting steps brought him nearer, and his hand rested gently at the back of my shoulder; I flinched at the contact, but didn’t draw away.

“Guilt is an emotion that I’m all too familiar with,” he murmured, the tremble in his voice less obvious but not completely gone. “However, right at the moment, I don’t give a damn what you _deserve_. I’m not here to judge you, Mr. Reese. And, even if I found myself in that unenviable position, I dare say I’d judge you less harshly than you judge yourself; that, too, is a trait we have in common.

“If I ever--” He swallowed, the sound loud within the silence of the apartment. “If I ever had any doubts about your work, they’ve long since vanished. You’ve more than lived up to your end of the bargain. These past few months you’ve put your life on the line, countless times, throwing yourself in the way of terrible events to save the innocent. People who otherwise would have died. You’ve saved lives, Mr. Reese. That’s enough… isn’t it? At least, for now?”

Enough to justify the work. Not the bargain. I shoved away from Finch and stalked over to the sofas, not to sit down but just to get some space between us. The ringing in my ears was painful now, closing in on any hangover I’d ever had.

“We can’t keep doing this,” I managed, with my back to him. “It’s hurting you.”

“You think this is _anything?_ ” he returned, a catch in his voice. “John, I… last year, I… I lost everyone I cared about, I-I spent three months in surgeries and rehab, learned to live with physical limitations and chronic pain, weaned myself off of narcotics so that I could pick up where Na--”

He paused to take in several quick, desperate breaths, while my mind reeled with the unexpected bounty of revelations about his past. For months I had hoped that someday we’d get to the point where he’d open up to me -- but not like this. Not from distress and fear, not because he was troubled enough to let slip what normally he’d keep hidden from me.

Yet another way I was hurting him.

“And I… _tried_ ,” he continued -- “for nine months I threw everything I had, everything I could manage, everything money could buy at the cases… whatever I could justify without compromising the Machine. And I… do you know how many innocent lives were saved through my efforts? Not even twenty. Stacked up against dozens upon dozens of avoidable deaths, deaths I saw coming but couldn’t do anything about. That guilt, that _knowledge_ is forever upon my shoulders, and that is a pain that I would do anything, _give_ anything, surrender _anything_ if it could buy some way to keep from adding to the load.”

Even on the soft carpet, I could hear his hesitant steps toward me, but, at my sudden tension, they stopped. It was a long moment before he continued.

“So… that’s the reason, Mr. Reese. The reason that I was willing to offer my body to you -- regardless of my own wishes in the matter, regardless of how it makes me feel to anticipate or, or to surrender to the sensations, regardless of what the fallout might be… because nothing you could possibly do to me is worth abandoning the numbers. I can’t go back to that. And I can’t do this alone, Mr. Reese; that’s been proven beyond any doubt. All this knowledge combined with all of my resources, my money and my skill with hacking and with impersonation… and I couldn’t even save twenty people.

“I have watched far too many people _die_ , Mr. Reese. But once I found you… I had hoped that you would be the turning point. And you _were_. You have turned everything around, gone so much further than my expectations. And there’s no one else, no one who could replace you. No one I know of who even comes _close_. No one who’d be willing to devote their life to the cause in the way that you most assuredly have.

“So if you want me, John -- if that’s what it takes to keep you -- then I am yours. Unreservedly.”

_If that’s what it takes to keep you_ \-- I swiveled in place to study Finch’s earnest expression, noting the tracks of tears down both cheeks, the gleam of wetness around his collar.

“You don’t trust me,” I said, in belated realization. “You think I’m just going to walk away.”

His brow furrowed. “Isn’t that--” He licked his lips. “You… you said the deal was off. I-I thought--”

My own voice rang in my head: _The trust will need to go both ways_.

Feeling unexpectedly drained, I stumbled over to the sofa facing Finch, and collapsed onto the soft cushions, letting my head fall back against the top. “God, Finch, just… sit down,” I said with a groan. “I’m not going anywhere. This job’s the only thing keeping me alive.”

After a moment, I heard Finch limp hesitantly to the other sofa, and looked up in time to see him gingerly lower himself down. Being on his knees earlier certainly hadn’t helped his back any.

The moment stretched as we just studied each other… two desperate men, trying to overcome our own defects and inadequacies enough to work together. Tied to each other through fate and guilt and fear, through shared knowledge of the Machine, shared responsibility for the numbers. Unable to walk away.

Finch looked nervous, and every bit as drained as I felt. As though he was only managing to hold on because it would be so much worse if he let go.

And he wouldn’t be free to let go… until I could find it within me to let _him_ go.

In the silence between us, I closed my eyes, and breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** Angsty angst. Guilt, shame, and self-blame. Considering yourself expendable.
> 
> Strong language -- though, as ever, when I use swearing to effect, it's specifically chosen for the occasion and diction/register of the character who uses it. The strongest instance is an unusual word for me to use, though: Reese calls Finch a "whore."
> 
> Discussion of Finch being manipulative (canon!), and Reese likewise.
> 
> Discussion of canon details: Finch's recovery after surgery, his drug use, disabilities.


	4. Off Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Was it really so bad? Being with me? I really did try to make it good for you. But it wasn’t enough, was it? Physical pleasure.”_
> 
> _“Too much, to be honest,” Finch replied, eyebrows jumping as he looked away._
> 
> _“Too much pleasure?”_
> 
> _“It’s… overwhelming. It’s like my brain shuts off; all I can process is the… sensations. Losing myself like that can be terrifying.”_
> 
> _My heart sunk. “That… that’s really the way you felt?”_
> 
> _“I’m not like you, Mr. Reese. I can’t turn that part of me on and off and on again. It’s too much.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings in end note, as usual (so those not wanting spoilers don't accidentally see them). This chapter's tamer; they've calmed down a bit and are talking things out. Coming to terms. Still a bit uncomfortable, but, elbows, I think you could probably read this chapter more easily than the previous ones.
> 
> This isn't even the end of the scene. How in the heck did I manage to draw this scene out so long? It's like that fairy tale about the merchant who could make fabric grow just by tugging at it: more and more and more.

Delays wouldn’t make this any easier, and yet I found it difficult to voice the words. But, finally, through sheer exhaustion, I managed it: “I don’t want sex.”

The statement seemed misleading as soon as I said it, and I hastened to clarify: “Or, well… I _do_ , but just… not like this. Not when _you_ don’t want it. If that’s the only way I can have it, then I’d just as soon never have it again.”

“Oh,” Finch breathed, his gaze dropping for a moment. He took in a few breaths, and then swallowed and met my eyes again, uncertainly. “I hope you don’t think that I was ever… that I resented our bargain, or… or was sorry to have made it. Even though it was difficult, it was… _important_. And I would make it again; my comfort is a small price to pay.”

I couldn’t see it that way. “You have more than enough discomfort to deal with in your life. Anyway, I can’t separate your pleasure from the rest of it -- and I don’t just mean the physical side of sex. If you’re not enjoying it, then it’s not worth it. And I… I noticed that, _months_ ago; I just… I couldn’t call it off.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to let the shame overwhelm me again; painful as the admission was, this was a conversation we needed to have. “I wanted to. Call it off. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Finch let out a small, amused huff. “I got the feeling that you _did_ , that first day. Wanted to… take me down a peg, or something. I was never sure _why_.”

“Thought you were a smug little bastard,” I confessed. “Trying to control me… push my buttons. Bringing Jessica into it was like punching me in the gut.”

“You… did react to that rather more strongly than I expected,” Finch replied.

“Very nearly killed you right there.”

“I guess I’m lucky you believed me enough to let me go.”

I barked out a laugh. “ _Believe_ you? That you wouldn’t lie to me? When you’d just refused to take no for an answer, tracked me down while I was vulnerable, kidnapped me, set up a whole… _presentation_ , just to play on my emotions, manipulate me into working for you? You were _playing_ me, Finch. I had every reason to think you were getting your rocks off with role-play and power lust.” It was my turn to huff. “If good luck’s even involved here, then you’re lucky that the job and the mysteries kept me hooked until I could see you for what you really are.”

When I looked his way, he was gaping at me, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Finally, he swallowed. “If… if you didn’t believe me, then… why did you even propose the deal? I don’t understand.”

“Wanted to rattle your cage,” I admitted. “Push you the way you’d been pushing me. At first I thought…” I looked away, rubbing the back of my neck. “I thought you’d walk. If I made the price high enough. Get mad, storm out. Never expected you to take the deal.”

For a moment, he simply absorbed that. “Then, it was… I was right, wasn’t I?” He stiffened, going red. “A jest, a… a lesson in humiliation.”

“At first.” I said it calmly, tonelessly, but the regret welled up within me. “By the time I got your pants open, I wasn’t sure _what_ to think. You certainly weren’t getting off on it, and yet you weren’t shutting me down. Gave you plenty of chances to bow out, and you never did.”

“I… I couldn’t let Diane Hansen _die_ ,” Finch protested hotly. “Not when the cost of saving her was so… comparatively insignificant. If I’d known that you thought so little of it--”

“The _deal_ didn’t matter to me,” I cut in, “but your _reaction_ , that’s what pulled me in, got me hooked. Made me want to get to know you better. The fact that you were willing to do whatever it took, that… it’s not what I’d been expecting. Not from a rich guy.

“I wasn’t lying when I said that money couldn’t persuade me. Never has. I’ve gotten on well with mill workers and janitors, with beggars living out of stolen shopping carts… but rich guys tend to get my hackles up.”

“Hmm. I take it for more than just the fact that they have money?”

“Too many of them just like having power over the little guy… having the freedom to demand that others do what they want. Or, if they don’t, it’s because they don’t even think twice about the people in the world who are hurting; they’re lost in their own little cloud palace of wealth and privilege and never bother coming down to earth.”

Catching the sudden flush of shame in Finch’s face, I tried to soften the blow. “I know you’re not like that, Finch. That’s just what I thought at the time.”

Finch sighed heavily. “The thing is, Mr. Reese, that _is_ how I was -- how I used to be -- for decades. After I’d made enough money that I didn’t have to concern myself with anything money could buy, I’m afraid I became quite… detached from those around me. It wasn’t until the towers came down that I was, well, confronted with the fact that I couldn’t fully withdraw from humanity. That what concerned humanity, concerned _me_.”

“Some might say you’ve made up for that failing, with interest.”

Frowning, he shook his head firmly. “They would be mistaken. But I’m not here to debate philosophy. You asked me once why I do this, and I… I’m afraid that I’m not quite ready to level with you about that yet. But, when I say that I have my reasons, you should understand that they are… compelling enough that my own personal comfort barely enters into the equation.”

If I had understood that much about Finch, would I have even offered the deal? Knowing that he would never refuse? That he was willing to sacrifice everything he had in order to bring me on board -- partly for the sake of the numbers, but, equally, as a bid to keep me alive?

I didn’t deserve his protection, or his trust. But I couldn’t say that I would have refused it, either.

“I thought I could make it good for you,” I murmured, finding it unexpectedly difficult to meet his eyes. “It was never supposed to be one-sided. As much as you seemed uncomfortable with it, I thought… I didn’t think that I was just taking something from you. Not at first.”

“I know,” Finch said, gently. “I had to come to terms with that. When you said it was a question of trust, that seemed like… a smokescreen. Like you really wanted, or needed, to have some power over me, in order to let yourself consider the offer. Letting you have that was easy enough. It took me a while to conclude that you were honestly trying to see to my pleasure as well… even if you didn’t know how.”

“Was it really so bad?” I asked, searching his expression. “Being with me? I really did _try_ to make it good for you.”

The corner of Finch’s mouth twitched up. “I figured that out after the third time you gave me a blow job without bothering to touch yourself. It seemed unlikely that you could get off on that alone.”

“But it wasn’t enough, was it? Physical pleasure.”

“ _Too_ much, to be honest,” Finch replied, eyebrows jumping as he looked away.

I frowned. “Too much… pleasure?”

Finch swallowed heavily; he took in a breath, and slowly let it out. Then another. Finally, scrunched in on himself and staring at the carpet, he faltered, “It’s… overwhelming. It’s like my brain shuts off; all I can process is the… sensations. Losing myself like that can be _terrifying_.”

My heart sunk. “That… that’s really the way you felt?”

“Most of the time. I just… I’m not like you, Mr. Reese. I can’t turn that part of me on and off and on again. Maybe I could have handled it better if you only wanted it a couple of times a month, but not… not like we’ve been doing. It’s too much.”

“Could have handled it… but wouldn’t have enjoyed it,” I confirmed, tonelessly.

“Well… I don’t mean to say that it’s impossible, but… it’s just that… well…” He trailed off, casting about and gesturing helplessly.

I felt sick to my stomach.

Eventually, his head came up. “You’ve been _drugged_ before, Mr. Reese,” he said, having found some point of commonality. “You know what it’s like to feel off guard, completely out of control of your body, your own _mind_. That’s what it feels like. What it does to me.”

“Don’t you ever _want_ that?” I blurted, even as it seemed obvious that he never would. “Something to, to switch off your brain for a while? Stop thinking about… everything that’s wrong, everything you’ve ever done, just make it all _stop?_ ”

“Far too often,” he confessed.

I stared. “…What?”

Finch rubbed his arms unhappily. “I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Reese, that you’re not the only one of us burdened with a great deal of regret, of guilt. More than enough to last a lifetime… _multiple_ lifetimes. The idea of a way to escape that awareness, even for a few hours…” His eyes scrunched tight, as if in pain. “It’s a temptation that I fight down dozens of times a day. That’s why I won’t allow myself the narcotics; why I put up with far more physical pain than I have to. Because, if I let myself seek that out… I-I’m not convinced that I could stop myself. Pull myself back from the brink.”

Confirmation that Finch was stronger, better than I could ever be… and all the more attractive, even though I knew that we could never connect the way I’d begun to hope for. But, equally, confirmation that the load he carried was heavy enough without my demands.

I couldn’t stop myself; I needed to know just how much I’d taken from him. “When you said that you weren’t very experienced… did I… was I your first?”

Finch’s lips twitched. “Not as such. The first _man_ I’ve ever been with, yes, though I can’t say that I’ve never considered it. And, when I invited you here tonight, I had prepared myself for the eventuality that we’d be… that you’d be pushing things _up there_ , which would be a first for me outside of a medical setting. But no, Mr. Reese, I’m hardly a virgin.”

“Was it less… overwhelming, with her?”

His brows shot up, and he let out an unexpected chuckle. “Well, she wasn’t popping in unannounced at all hours of the day or night, demanding that I drop whatever I’m doing and switch gears _right then_. That particular penchant of yours has been _intensely_ disconcerting.”

“So it was… better?” _I could make it better_ , my brain cried, desperately. _I could do so much better. I could make it good for you._ The thoughts remained unvoiced; that possibility was forever behind us.

It was a long moment before Finch replied, and, when he did, it was slow and halting. “To begin with,” he said, “it was at a time when I was not so burdened by guilt, or pain. Beyond that, though… it was never _spontaneous_. We would plan it out together, days or even weeks in advance. When the night arrived, I would come home knowing how we’d be spending it. And it would take up most of the evening, and… in that _context_ , I found it quite enjoyable.”

“Wait. You can handle a whole _evening_ of sex, but not a few minutes?”

“It’s not-- it’s not the amount of time, so much as the _pace_. Grace has--” His eyes squeezed shut, as if in sudden pain, and I recalled his words from earlier tonight: _I lost everyone I cared about_. Obviously he cared about her, so the only question was whether he’d lost her recently -- just last year -- or somewhere in the decades before then.

When he continued, brow furrowed, I could just make out the slight tremor of his lips. “There were… m-medical issues, that made it difficult for her. Which meant that we had to take it slow, and be patient with each other. A single session might last two, three, even four hours, yes, but nothing like this sudden, unexpected race to the finish line that I don’t have time to _prepare_ for, either mentally or physically.”

A four-hour session with Finch… the thought made me hard enough to squirm. I tried to suppress it, hoping he didn’t notice. But he wasn’t talking about four hours of hot and heavy sex; I couldn’t even wrap my head around the idea of taking it that slow. Controlling yourself to that degree. “How did you even…?”

“Well, obviously we didn’t do it very often. At our most active, it was close to once a month; most of the time, it wasn’t even _that_ frequent. But that gave me enough time to anticipate the experience, and be ready for it, and enjoy it. And the sensations were… less intense, usually. Quite different, spread out over all that time. More than just sex, it was a physical expression of deep affection, of… love.”

Suddenly, he stiffened up, lips pursed and eyes wide, as if in sudden realization. “And that is far more than I expected to share with you this evening,” he concluded, all his shields going up, his body tense and closed off from me once more.

It was odd how the information he’d just given me felt so much more intimate -- to _both_ of us, clearly -- than the sex we’d almost had tonight. I could have had my cock all the way up his ass and yet not breached him so deeply.

Later on, I could sort through the details he’d shared with me, see if I wanted to follow up on any of them -- but, for the moment, there was only one thing we needed to get straight. Delaying the question wouldn’t benefit either of us, so I gave it voice:

“Where do we go from here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** Still angst, guilt, shame, self-blame, but lower intensity than previous chapters. Finch confesses that he's concerned about the potential for addiction (and worse) if he lets himself take narcotics or do other things that would rid him of guilt for a while.
> 
> More discussion of Finch being manipulative. A fair amount here is just their perspective on that first meeting, in tenaya's version of events. Their perspective on their relationship so far.
> 
> Finch explains that he finds sexual sensations to be overwhelming, and that they take preparation (mental, physical, emotional) in order for him to find them pleasurable; John just jumping him all the time was difficult for him to cope with. He also describes Grace as having a medical issue that makes it difficult to have sex (they have to take it slow and careful).
> 
> * * *
> 
> Also, I'm quite amused at the fact that I managed to concoct a situation in which the narrative is serious and dramatic and not at all sexual and still uses the phrase _my cock all the way up his ass_. That phrasing is particularly chosen for effect and I'm reasonably proud of the use to which I put it.


	5. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _My gut clenched tight at the thought of confessing my choice to Finch; maybe this would finally be the breaking point between us. But if we were to have anything like a clean slate tonight, I couldn’t see a way around it: Finch had to know_.
> 
> _“I killed a man,” I admitted, before I could talk myself out of it. “Virtanen Pharmaceuticals. When I phoned to tell you they’d blindsided me, I… I was standing next to his body.”_
> 
> _Narrowing his eyes, Finch looked to the side… trying to place the conversation, most likely. “Ah. Before you chased down Ms. Morgan.”_
> 
> _"It wasn’t in the heat of the moment, wasn’t the only way to stop him; I knew before getting up from the chair that he was going to die. That I was going to kill him that way.”_
> 
> _With my heart pounding in my ears, I sat as quietly as I could, awaiting his judgment_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, did I just actually end this scene?
> 
> I swear, I started this scene with the thought of it being "a chapter," but this is quite possibly the longest "chapter" I have ever published here.
> 
> Content's winding down, much milder. Self-loathing, fear of rejection, discussion of ethics, discussion of consent issues, forgiveness. A particular canon moment gets mentioned that deals with premeditated murder. I don't think there's enough here to really trouble anyone who's used to the show and doesn't mind a little ramped-up emotional drama, especially as this is coming to a positive ending for this… "chapter" or whatever.

Still tense and cautious, Finch searched my face. “Are you… is there anything you require in order to keep working the cases?”

I considered. Was there anything that would make me give up? Walk away? I shook my head.

“Then… you’ll stay?”

“I can’t see any better path for me. Everything else is a dead end. Literally.”

Frowning, he let that sink in. “Then, trust is no longer an issue, between us?”

“You’ve proven your dedication to the numbers,” I said, “and to my safety, when you risked your own life _and_ privacy to beat me to that evidence lockup. Made good on your promises, even to your own detriment. Showed me that you didn’t hire me to be a killer, yet, despite your misgivings, didn’t turn against me when I took out Benton.” I shrugged. “I can’t see what else I could ask of you.”

“I hope there aren’t too many other cases like Benton,” Finch said, with a sharp edge to the declaration. I wondered if he had added Benton’s death to the weight of guilt he carried, even though Megan Tillman and I had both judged the world better off without that craven waste of oxygen.

“Well, obviously I’ll prioritize the safety of innocents, and sometimes that means I can’t just kneecap a gunman. But when there’s time to stop and plan out alternatives?”

My mouth was open to follow that with a promise -- _I’ll never kill a man without good reason_ \-- but then my stomach turned over as I recalled the man I’d killed in Virtanen Pharmaceuticals.

 

Since Finch had expressed his distaste for killing, I’d done my best to avoid it. Finch knew about Stills and the hostage, where there hadn’t been a choice, and he’d regretfully accepted that; me, I’d not only rejoiced in a justified death, but cheerfully stolen the man’s identity thereafter. With Benton, I’d exhausted the non-lethal options, and then been soberly convinced, after two minutes of talking with the man, that the world would benefit from his death. So I’d taken him out permanently, ensuring that he’d never again have the chance to destroy another life.

Yet, however justifiable it might have been, Benton’s death was the one time that Finch had come close to calling off our deal.

Knowing that, I’d never had the courage to bring up the guy that I’d killed at Virtanen. The death that had been vengeance, not self-defense. The one that had been… unnecessary.

Had I even heard his name? If I had, I didn’t remember it. I knew nothing about him except his complicity in killing Dana Miller, and his attempt to kill me. The way he’d smiled while he readied the lethal injection.

The way he’d slid down the wall after I’d redirected that needle into his own body instead of mine -- the executioner, killed by his own weapon of choice. It didn’t lack for poetic irony.

And yet… his death had been avoidable. He wasn’t the threat that Benton had been, nor was he as immune to criminal charges. I had never regretted killing Stills or Benton, but the guy at Virtanen -- his death weighed on me. There had been other ways to handle it.

My gut clenched tight at the thought of confessing my choice to Finch; maybe this would finally be the breaking point between us. But if we were to have anything like a clean slate tonight, I couldn’t see a way around it: Finch had to know.

 

When I hesitated a moment too long, his brows drew together. “Mr. Reese? What is it?”

_I’m not here to judge you, Mr. Reese. And I dare say I’d judge you less harshly than you judge yourself_.

_You’ve saved lives, Mr. Reese. That’s enough, isn’t it?_

Would it be enough for Finch to overlook this transgression? Would he truly judge me less for it than I was judging myself? Maybe he’d judge me _more_ , like he did with Benton. Could I trust that he was telling the truth about keeping me on, that my benefit to the cause outweighed the occasional cold-blooded murder?

_The trust will need to go both ways_.

“I killed a man,” I admitted, before I could talk myself out of it. “Virtanen Pharmaceuticals. When I phoned to tell you they’d blindsided me, I…” I swallowed, unable to meet his eyes. “I was standing next to his body.”

Narrowing his eyes, Finch looked to the side… trying to place the conversation, most likely. “Ah. Before you chased down Ms. Morgan.”

“They’d captured us -- planned to kill us both, but Keller talked Zoe into making a deal, so they left me with the guy who was supposed to kill me.”

Finch nodded thoughtfully, then looked to me to continue. Taking in a breath, I closed my eyes.

“I didn’t have to kill him. I’d already overpowered him. Could’ve secured him with his own handcuffs, but…”

Regarding me with quiet patience, Finch waited out my silence until I was able to press on.

“Potassium Chloride. He’d almost killed me with it. I redirected it… jabbed him with his own needle. It wasn’t in the heat of the moment, wasn’t the only way to stop him; I knew before getting up from the chair that he was going to die. That I was going to kill him that way.”

Finch’s face was closed off; whatever emotions he was dealing with were hidden from me, as they so often were. After Benton, he’d been disturbed, on edge, ready to fight or run; here, he was still calm, thoughtful, controlled by logic instead of disgust or fear.

With my heart pounding in my ears, I sat as quietly as I could, awaiting his judgment.

Eventually, he took a deep breath and sighed it out again, meeting my gaze calmly, most of the tension gone. “I can’t say that I’m happy about the loss of life,” he said carefully, “but I have, for the most part, come to terms with the fact that you are not as… forgiving… as I am.

“No, that’s not true,” he amended, frowning. “During that case, I was particularly vindictive myself; my means were simply less lethal than yours. I saw a chance to turn Mr. Keller’s evil back upon himself, in the most vicious way I could manage, and I _relished_ the look in his eyes as he understood _exactly_ what I’d done to him, and why. I don’t regret that,” he added, raising his chin. “It stems from a darker part of myself, but I felt… _content_ , with my actions that day. Relieved to have achieved some level of justice for Dana Miller, by having found the man who arranged for her death, and thoroughly destroying everything he cared about. I can’t say that I feel any differently now.

“So if you’re looking for condemnation, Mr. Reese, then I’m afraid you’re looking to the wrong man. I may be less inclined to outright _kill_ someone, I may occasionally be horrified at the solutions that you arrive at, and I certainly hope that you will strive to attain a higher standard, but…” His brows drew together as he held my gaze. “Even before we met, I had hoped that you could learn to channel your training, your instincts, into less lethal solutions, whenever possible. For the most part, you _have_. If there are occasional lapses… well, I’m not the one there in the field. I can’t make the decisions for you… or be too critical of them in the aftermath.”

He sounded so sure of himself, convinced of his position; I wished that I could feel that confident. Especially with what I was about to confess -- the last part of the wound to lance.

“I should have told you,” I said. “I was convinced that you’d reject me again. Like after Benton. When I found you in the library, taking down the case, I…” My breath was coming faster, blood pulsing in my ears; I closed my eyes, unable to keep looking at him. “I… I needed… needed to know that I wasn’t just a killer. That I could do something good, something right. Make you feel good. So I--” My voice choked off, and it took me a moment to pull myself together again; he didn’t interrupt. “I knew that you might choose differently, if you knew. So I didn’t tell you. I knew that I should let you choose, but I just…” I floundered. “It wasn’t right. I know that.”

When the moment stretched and it became clear that I couldn’t find any more words for what I’d done, Finch nodded soberly. “You’re right that I should have known,” he said. “Even if -- _especially_ if -- you thought it might change my actions. That’s… quite basic, really. Informed consent.”

Then he sighed. “I don’t think I would have… no. I… I honestly can’t say. When you came back with Benton’s blood on your hands, I… it was something that I had spent a couple of hours trying to come to grips with, and I still didn’t know what to do about it. What I _ought_ to do. Whether I should cut you loose before it got any worse, or… or whether I could live with it, with what you did… what you would almost certainly do again, if we came across a similar case. Whether the loss of Benton was acceptable, whether you’d truly done everything that you could possibly do to resolve the case in a less lethal manner.

“And it took me a while, Mr. Reese. Truly. But I do think that by the time we ran across Ms. Morgan, I had found it within myself to accept even this about you. Not to _like_ it, certainly, and I can’t honestly say that I appreciate the necessity, although I do understand it on, well, on a theoretical level. But I do still believe -- I _know_ \-- that your work on the numbers was worth -- _is_ worth -- the occasional uneasy feeling in my stomach when you go a little further than I might have gone myself.

“So no, I don’t think that I would have rejected you. But I don’t know that I would have felt comfortable, letting you touch me that way, right on the heels of learning that. It… takes me some time to adjust, and even more so when it’s something more than physical or emotional.”

Given what he’d said earlier, that detail seemed even more important. “I’m sorry,” I said, aware that it was inadequate. But Finch just nodded, frowning a little, and then the silence hung between us for a while.

At length, he took in a deep breath and let it out again, and smiled a little, weakly, ducking his head. “At the moment, Mr. Reese, the factor I am most impressed with is your courage.”

Stunned, I couldn’t find any words. What could he be seeing here to make him think I had anything like _courage?_

But Finch’s smile got a little broader. “I suppose you can’t see it for yourself,” he said. “And I don’t mean to say that you haven’t been cowardly; some of your actions have been _incredibly_ cowardly. I understand them; I forgive them; but they were not the acts of a brave man, or of a moral man.

“And yet… tonight, you found the courage to put a stop to our agreement, an agreement that you very much seem to want; and not only that, but to explain to me your reasoning, even though it sheds a very dark light on your actions since I’ve known you. Coming clean to me that way is an act of great courage, and I thank you for it.”

Now I gaped at him openly, my eyes gone wide.

After a moment, Finch dropped his gaze. “You might be thinking,” he said, “that I’m praising you for what ought to be normal behavior. And you would be right. A man with high standards of morality would do these things without thinking about it. But that’s not actually the standard that I expect from you.” He looked back at me.

I swallowed. “You… don’t expect me to be a good man.” _Because you know I’m not capable of it._ It was something I’d understood about myself, but hearing it from Finch was like a punch to the gut.

“That’s… not precisely the case,” Finch corrected, frowning. “If I had thought that you were incapable of moral decisions, I would never have brought you on board. But I’ve had to be realistic about your capabilities. Things have been _done_ to you -- many things, piled up over the years, some inadvertent and others quite deliberate -- and they have slowly worn away your sense of right and wrong. But it’s not completely gone; it’s still there, buried beneath all the tarnish. _I can see it_ , Mr. Reese. If you can trust me on nothing else, at least trust me on that point. You have it within you to be a good man.”

Finch’s vision of me was too bright to look at, too misty to grasp -- too unlike what I knew of myself by now. How could a good man do anything like the things that I had done?

“Still, it would be foolish,” Finch continued, a little softer, “to pretend that the toxic world you’ve been subjected to didn’t have an effect… one that carries on long after you’ve gotten free from that environment. And it would be unfair to expect you to overcome it immediately. It may well be that you face that struggle for the rest of your life. I believe that you have the strength to fight it; I aim to give you good reason to continue doing so.”

“I’ll always be damaged,” I muttered. “This is what you get, Finch. You’ve seen what I do… you’ve felt it… and even when I _know_ that I shouldn’t do these things, I can’t help myself. You have to know I’m going to do them again.”

“I do,” he agreed, “and the thought doesn’t especially trouble me. You see, I expected a certain amount of bad behavior from you, especially at first, and I have taken that into account. What I am looking for, right now -- the criteria by which I would continue to accept you as a partner -- is not your capabilities, but your volition. Do you honestly _want_ to do right, Mr. Reese? Do you care when you know that you’ve done wrong?”

“Yes,” I choked out. “I want to. God, Finch, I-- I want to be good for you. But I-I’m not-- I can’t--” I buried my head in my hands, choking back a sob.

I should have heard him struggle to get up off the sofa, heard his footsteps across the carpet, but I didn’t even know he had moved until I felt his hand rest softly on the side of my hair.

“I have seen you do right,” Finch murmured. “When I saw you spare Daniel Casey, I knew that I was looking at a man who could do the right thing, even at great risk, at tremendous cost. And while our moral standards are not always on the same wavelength, I have yet to see anything in you that contradicts that impression.

“Except… in the way you interact with _me_ ,” he concluded, softly. “Not simply in the bedroom, but in the way you’ve tried to get at my secrets, intrude into my private life, well beyond the boundaries of our agreement. At times it… it _terrifies_ me, seeing just how much you’ve dug into the details I’ve so carefully hidden. You’re well aware that I disapprove, yet you continue to push. Still, as I am the only one affected, I am more, well… more curious about it than troubled by it. If you can risk your life to help the numbers, then I see no reason to balk too much at this.”

Under his hand, I shook my head, almost violently. “You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t _let_ me.”

For a moment, he was silent, though the slight weight of his hand didn’t leave me. “Do you imagine that I hold your leash, Mr. Reese?” he said, at last. “You are a grown man. Your decisions are your own. There are times when your darker nature gets the better of you, but… that is a trait that is common to humanity. I am no better. I… I h-have…”

His hand dropped from my head, and, when I glanced up, I found him staring into the distance, his breath coming just a little faster -- lost to some dark memory. “I once sat trembling with rage,” he said, “a hair’s breadth away from pressing a button and ending a terrified woman’s life.” His gaze dropped to the floor. “I’m honestly not very sure what stopped me.”

Then he shook himself a little, and caught my gaze again, standing so close that I could have grabbed him by the arms. “But I know that darkness within myself,” he said, “and that is part of the reason that I am extending to you the leeway you need to pull yourself out of your own. And I cannot see any way to do that without accepting you for who and what you are… even when you are less than what I hope to see. Accepting you even when you cannot accept yourself.”

My breath caught in my throat, and on impulse I caught his hand, pressed a kiss to the back of it, pressed it to my forehead. I was shaking. I had no words for what he was offering me -- the forgiveness, the promise of a future. Not the relationship I had been hoping for, but far more than I had ever deserved from him -- from anyone. And Finch was giving it to me.

There was no question: I was his for life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end of the story! But perhaps we can let them rest for a little while; it's a good stopping point, and I've got other things to write.
> 
> Please be on the lookout next week for my **Birthday Prompt!** [Last year](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11827620) I got a good spread of interpretations for my simple scenario, and while this year's prompt won't be nearly as dramatic, I do hope a lot of people make their own versions for me to enjoy at the end of the month =^.^=


End file.
